The Weighty Marriage

The Weighty Marriage
B_25 & Magic Man

It’d been slow—but eventual. Everything flushing back in a flux of sadness while Zecora laid on the bed. Queen size slowly unable to handle her size. It panged her with guilt. Tiny jiggles and sways from her large frame as she silently wept to herself.

Despite the things she loved on either side.

Zecora rolled to the left, a heavy and lethargic movement, requiring a few seconds of effort, pushing, relying on momentum to move the mountain that was her belly. It bore a weight of its own. The rest of her body was dependent on where it went. Never the other way around.

But she rolled. The groans of the bed, squeaking of the springs, the seeping indention of the sheets diving into a pond underneath her mass. The frame creaked. Worst feeling yet. Dread of the wood cracking, what held them up, her up then unable to do so. How everything would crash. His thud light; hers breaking through the ground.

Could the house stand her fullest impact?

Those thoughts crushed and compressed her. It was already hard enough to breathe as it was. Sharp inhales through the mouth, held and choking on them for seconds—exhales with intermittent shutters. It was all she could do to keep quiet. Not wanting to wake the hubby working so hard, so long, and sleeping so lightly, so rarely.

But the bedside table. Zecora struggled to reach its center drawer. Her hand lunged forward and fell to the weight of her arm. She heaved and gazed at it. Stripes bloated out as to lose their clarity. Streaks of brown faded and allowing dots and spots of her natural coat to come in.

Should she swallow her shame and have the stripes stroked on? What was natural, lost, only regained artificially? The idea choked her. Much like how the golden claps and jewels she’d once adorned. The brackets around her arms, which, on losing their taut muscles, were replaced by bountiful fat—expanding broader and broader.

Maybe there was a horrible humour to it. Zecora lifted her arm, shaking it. The lax fat wobbled around, easily jostled without her knowing. Even with the shaking done it stilled jiggled. Not the kind of jiggling a guy enjoyed watching. Doing it now only instilled the bitter comedy of it all.

Didn’t help the bedside portrait wasn’t kind either. Both her and Mac standing side by side, both tall, both strong, both littered with muscles in different fashions. Hard toil created fantastic bodies of them both. Time when working meant more then then it did now.

Those brackets worn around her arms. Fixed to the width of her muscles, accentuating their form, mass, and power. Strong and fiery. The kind of girl to last on her own, take care of her own, the leader and example and idol for those around her.

Those brackets were no longer worn around her arm. Even as her stumpy arms reached for the priority they wobbled on the grabbing. She’d lifted the one, but even still, the loose fat pressed on the edge of the bed, draping over it, flattening into a pile of contact.

She put the portrait back on the table. Lowering her hand, the handle of the drawer touched around her fingers. Lightly pulling on it, the soft creak, a admitting defeat, Zecora reached in... taking out the bag of chips.

Not a candy part or an apple tart or something silent. Fate couldn’t be kind to one like her. Much like the choice to stop wearing those brackets. Struggling to open them around her arm, collecting fat into their hold, pinching and clamping upon it, the utter tightness unbearable. Blood flow pressed shut.

Hoops around the neck were another praise turned to disgrace. Width of her throat couldn’t fit the loops regards of further extensions. They’d always choke her. Cold metal pressing into the flesh, digging into it, pushing Stygian her throat. It’d grown unbearable that’d they had to go.

Zecora struggled, with a pant, pulling on both sides of the bad. It quickly tore open with the sound of loud tearing. His snoring stopped. Her eyes widened. Glancing over at the sleeping hunk in red, however, revealed his naked, chiselled chest pushing up and pulling down.

Rolling back groaned the bed once more. She was aware of his body pressed on and over by her own. Her back, from the fatness of her ass to the extra fat stored evenly across her body, the one thing she was ever thankful for—also levitated her body inches from where she laid and sat.

It was hard. Lying on the bed only be inches higher than her lover. To sit on a chair and be elevated from the rest. Maybe, sometimes, there was a hidden delight to it. Having all the mass and all that ass to make her more, larger and bigger and taller than the rest. But it was hardly the recess needed to serve as a respite from her guilt and shame.

Zecora flopped onto her back proper, the movement and momentum coursing throughout her body, jostling her breast into a jiggle and her belly into a broad wobble. How something so large, so full and pushed out could jiggle and wiggle so easily was beyond her.

Even breathing was enough to bloat her pot upward and outward, filling all that space with air. Her daughter didn’t mind walking across her tummy, light enough to jump upon it, playing as it was a blow-up playground.

The thought both warmed and wounded her.

But Zecora continued to much on her chips, careful despite their loud crunch, feeling so horribly empty. Her belly was full, and yet, always starving. Even the swallowing of the snack jiggled down her frame, pumping into her cavernous tummy, little things littering a cave and granting it little affect.

That was the other feeling. Hunger. Needing to eat vast quantities of food to fill out her overstuffed stomach. It was enormous and broad that little snack barely hit the spot. Turkey or two could touch her inner-walls with the feelings of fullness that she craved. Snacks, though useless, were needed to spot the time between then.

Zecora ate her chips. Hated herself. And rolled her hips, seeing the sway of her belly. Always horribly amused by it. Nothing she could do about it. The duo slept naked. And she had to stare at her nakedness every night. The rise of her belly too high to see over, despite fitting her other proportions, the beyond thick legs below a treasure to him.

Even if Mac was the only one to see it.

Big Mac groaned softly upon the fluttering of his eyes. Few flicks for everything to click. The air was scented of her. The right side of his body flattened over by something other than a blanket. It was the same sensation and feeling he’d woken up to for years now.

Mac glanced to his right. One of her legs had crossed over his, the massive pillar pushing his own into the mattress. It sunk, the indention creating a weight. Yet he didn’t mind it. The pressure of another was always pleasant on the skin and the nerves beneath.

Slowly. Inch by inch. He untangled himself from her, careful not to jostle her excess. Holidays were here and those always marked the allowance of sleeping past the rise of dawn. While he shifted to the right, however, Mac gazed over his wife’s sleeping figure.

There was something that always caught his eye in gazing at her stomach. It was a monolithic sight broader than the top of a mountain. Its curve was smooth without hardly any stretching. Rather everything was pulled taut by the mass. Watching the stripes roll over it was always calming to chase after them with one’s gaze.

Or her breathing. Slow and cumbersome as it was—each counted more for it. Watching that huge mass slowly spread outward, upward, consuming more spaced, reaching distant places. How it could just become so much and then easily deflate. It was amusing and stimulating to the eye and the mind. Hidden delight to the world. Or, at least, the room.

The hunk finally slid out of the bed. Seconds after, however, the mass of his wife came and claimed his place. Fully laying on her back, legs and arms splayed out, the whole of her being declared the bed. The groans of the springs sounded lighter and under much less strain. Her weight was better balanced as it was spread out all over proportionally.

Maybe it was time to get a bigger bed after all. Not that Mac didn’t mind sleeping as it was. Being close to his wife, covered by her body. Sometimes hugged into her big embrace as warm flesh flattened and rubbed over every inch of his skin.

But seeing her able to lie back, normally and happily, free to be free. That was something more he wanted to do for her. To give her that ample space to appropriately fill out. He wasn’t a guy who needed much and already had all that he wanted. There wasn’t price nor pain in trying to achieve hers.

The day, however, couldn’t be spent gazing at her plump belly. Relatives would be over soon for the Apple’s Hearth Warming and barely any of the decorations had been set. It’d been his one day off from working on the farm—spent working on the house.

Not that Mac minded.

Worked was something he sincerely enjoyed.

Getting himself dressed—pants up his legs and shirt down his chest—he came a final time over his wife. He leaned in for a kiss. Starting at her lips, working over to her floated cheek. Then he followed down. Through the excess texture on the throat to in-between the plump breasts of her chest.

His hands caressed over the sides of her mountain, caressing the weighty obstruction, appreciating its faint wobbles. Pushing in to easily feel it jut back out. Little pushes to feel how it swayed. Pleasure in lifting parts up to feel it weigh again into his palm. A final kiss on her belly button for good luck.

And then he was off.

The direct sunlight warming clue Zecora into knowing she’d slept in. Times of being up before the sun was long gone in the house with the exception of one. Groggily, she lifted in the bed—the added space granting her more comfort.

There was still the heavy groan to the bed as she sat up but, unlike before, it came evenly from all around—opposed to one concentrated place. Her stubby legs pressed against the board of the bed. Her belly jutting over her thighs and spilling into the crevice between.

It took a few moments for her to move, every action requiring considerable effort, edging to the side of the mattress, enduring the chorus of squeaks and groans. It came, even more, when her feet fell and pressed into the wooden floor. It creaked the loudest. Fears of collapse beyond legitimate.

Zecora managed across the floor of her bedroom, no note nor scroll left. The distant sounds of hammering spoke of the location of her husband. He’d be busy for a while if he hadn’t come up to check upon hearing her get up.

Another detail to arise with the added weight. Before the zebra was light on her feet. Able to surprise her husband with silent feet in the kitchen. He’d be waiting for the coffee to brew. Her hands would cover his eyes. Seconds later a cup of steaming caffeine was held below his snout.

Now, however, regardless of where she was, Zecora’s location was always known in the house. One didn’t need to listen for her footsteps for they continuously roared out. They’d been jests of never standing beneath the sound lest a massive cannonball, quite literately, crushed them from above.

Those comments dug beneath the coat.

The same coat that desperatelyneeded to be washed.

Maybe a nice bubble bath will ease the floor from my path. Zecora sauntered through the hall, naked still. None would be up here and those still around were used to the sight. Her hand reached for the door, clicking in, pushing out—nearly throwing the frame as it banged against the back wall.

Being bigger, though slower, meant more power. Lazy and weak kind of strength. But it was something to look out for. Like the issue of walking through the door now. Zecora turned to her side, inhaling deeply, sucking in her fat, swirling it within, the thickest swell of its bottom jutting upward.

It wasn’t necessary to do, but sometimes, it made life easier.

Until her ass caught on the frame.

It’d also balloon to cosmic proportions. Each cheek akin to a balloon with the mass of ass it possessed. Wobbling with her every step that required the broadest and yet tightest of panties to slow and stop. Problem was how it dug into each cheek, pushing them so tightly together, stiffing their freshness.

Zecora groaned. With once flank past and the other stuck on the hinge, her head leaned back, fighting back the stinging in her eyes. With a heave, she thrust her hips left, against and again, the bountiful tush whacking and pushing over the wood, more and more fat spilling over to the other side—until the final thrust stumbled her through.

Going through doors had never been such an ordeal before.

Until now.

It took a while to get the bath going. The rim of the tub blocked by the smooth curve of her belly. Leaning forward was hard to her stomach took the rest of her with it. But tricks were easily found. Leaning her chub on the tub, Zecora could squat a little, reaching her small arms out, grasping the handles, turning the valves.

Standing around for the water to fill was the worst. Hardly anything could be seen beyond the swell of her stomach. Even the glance over showed only the water filling. The same liquid that reflected the bottom of her barrel. How wide it ran and jiggled despite being still. Everything lately seemed to be about it.

The water filled to the finish of steam. Windows closed and the door did the same so the heat would remain. Her legs were the first to dip in, the warming touch of water, consuming and washing over her every wish. The kind of loving hug intense at the start.

Zecora paused on jiggling her hindquarters to inside the rim of the tub. Another trick was required. Taking the hands to the sides of her cheeks, she pushed and bunched them together, the best she could, lowering her tush.

The rubbing squeak of bum against porcelain echoed in the room like one rubbing a window with a cloth. The pressure of the frame mounted around her, pleasant in its cupping of her excesses, condensing them into a bigger flab. But lowering further only made it uncomfortable as her flanks touched the water quicker than they should, her body partly lifted from the seas, her cheeks flattened against and over the curved walls of white surrounding her.

Tonight will be strange indeed for those before estranged. Zecora sighed and leaned back in the tub. More rubbing of squeaks crying into the air. Her feet reached the end of the container, her tush sliding deeper into the water.

Despite this. Her plump belly rose out of the water at the half-point like some jiggly island. Water cascaded around its sphere, currents running in narrow lands, streaking all around, so little happening upon so much. She barely saw over its top, heaving a breath, watching it jut up even more.

So many unaware of how the passage of time has changed us here. Zecora dipped her muzzle beneath the water. There’d been another reason why she couldn’t go deeper. The sides of her belly had slid into a tuck against the walls of the tub as well. The pressure of the position would keep her wedged. What will they think of seeing me so unfit? Apples have always been a strong and hardworking clan. Can either of those qualities be spoken of my current vitality?

These thoughts never helped. One always knew that. But knowing never prevented. Even if all they did was hamper without sparking a call for change—one endured them anyway. Guilt and shame desire pain and misery. The body’s way of paying for what the mind believes.

I... do not think I could handle the jokes again. Those close already crack laughs with rather ease. Always with their noses up and their eyes down. Knowing better than the rest; being better than the rest. This will give them laughs and ticks for me being within their family. Worst is how Big Mac will be seen and thought and reacted by all this. Distant family seeing what he has become—with me attached.

It was a strange thing to do, but sometimes, the peculiar only find comfort in strangeness. At least when alone. Zecora leaned forward, sliding her arms over the hill of her stomach, feeling the plush, thinly coat give way to the skin. Even thinner than her coat. Below that was the fat. The pudge she played with in her hands. Pushing it left and slapping it right, swaying it all around, knead clumps and then letting them fall as they spread all around.

Then she would wrap her arms around it, the best she could, hugging into it, sinking into the warmly heated fat, sighing, finding a modicum of comfort to her woes. Though the torrents of thoughts tore through her.

Will he take their jokes? Agree with them? What has he thought of me these last few years? Zecora hugged her belly harder against her chest, the action hard, but the only one she was capable of. Will he joke and jest with them or punch one of them out? He’s been known to work his anger out through his fists.

Zecora wasn't sure sometimes who the weight gain affected more. Her lover or herself? Though most of those family members would wonder not only how she lost her amazon figure—but why Mac would keep with such a girl in the first place.

And that thought let to the one hurting the most.

Why was Big Mac still with her?

Zecora sighed. The warm waters cleansed her coat and skin, though, of course, did nothing to clean her mind. Nothing could quell emotions. Anxiety ended only when a conclusion was achieved. What conclusion that followed was the source of such anxiety to begin with. Her face dipped beneath the water and screamed lightly in the rising of bubbles.

Though once the warm water then turned cool, and chills instead of comfort then crept over her skin, Zecora knew her respite from the world had ceased. With a groan, her hands latched to the sides of the tub, fighting to push upward—only for intense pressure to mount on her sides.

Zecora's burning blush warmed the waters if only with her dread. Not only was the pudge mountain of her belly caught within the confines of the bath—but her tush done the same. Ballooned out the sides and stuck in their flattening over the pristine white.

Her best attempts to rise out of the water resulted only in her splashing back, sending waves blowing out, rolling down the protrusion of her stomach. Getting her stomach unstuck left only for her butt to fill out further in the space below. Rising forward pulled some tons of her butt into freedom—though her belly would catch deeper into the bath and against the sides.

There was no winning by herself.

And when one couldn't win by themselves.

They had to call for help.

Applebloom was used to hearing both the call and seeing the resulting sight. Like Big Mac, the once little girl had grown accustomed to the gained mass of the bigger girl. She came already with a stick. One thicker than normal wood.

Zecora was forced to lay back in shame while the younger sister came without a word. Thankfully, there wasn't a raised eyebrow or even a chuckle. No look of disgust. The act was nearly strangely apathetic, simply something that happened, and something that the young girl had to do something about.

They never talked much during such times—neither before or afterward—but it. The ruler was shimmied through the sides of Zecroa's voluminous butt and the broad hill of her belly. Sliding in and pull up, releasing caught flaps as she fought to raise her body within the same motion. Loud pops and release of squeaks sounded once the poor zebra was able to rise from the cold waters.

She was left to dry off.

While Applebloom simply left.

The acts of the day always seemed to the last, at least those growing in ways they never dared hope for—rather the change gradual, hard to notice in the moment, caught slightly in the reflection, solidifying only when it was too late for change.

When addiction became viscous.

Zecora stood in her bedroom, naked, and with the door opened. The effort of closing it only to open again would exhaust her already drained belly and tired, flabby arms. She heaved upon leaning forward, grown taller due to her size, having to lean forward to reach the drawer for clothing.

They were going to need to get a taller one soon. Simply because the zebra couldn't handle leaning forward. The curve of her underbelly pressed against the counter and blocked sight of it. Also obstructed the pulling of the drawer too. She couldn't stand upright before it, but rather, a step or two behind, learning forward and bearing the cannon of her stomach weighing her body to the floor.

It was impossible to hold the pose for long. Seconds after holding—enough to snag broad underwear—she'd immediately rise. Standing for moments at a time, breathing heavy, setting the undies on the counter. Then she'd dive again for the pants. Rinse and repeat. Results same as the bath.

Once all of the clothing had been assembled came the next ordeal of putting them on. She brought them to the bed as her enormous ass weighed heavily into the mattress—through the springs and nearly touching the frame beneath. Her bottom covered the complete middle of the side of the bed.

How little she grew into being utterly gigantic.

Underwear was hard, and yet, the easiest of the bunch. Its holes barely vast enough to swallow her fat. The thighs was where she struggled. Sliding and suckling on her skin. Hugging it rather too tightly. Her bottom barely fit into its back and spilled more than plenty out the brim.

Pants were torture despite being like a blanket. They had to be put on while standing for her belly jutted out too far while sitting. She passed its holes up her legs, its confines quickly filled out, the fabric then stretching out as it went along. In trying to rise over the swells of her flanks was when the wiggle competition then began.

The sweater was a bit easier. Richly black and densely stitched. Enough to house some younger girls—them running with it one time like it were a kite or a cape—the hugged her body deliciously. Her fat of shame warmly embraced by the sweater. Something she felt good about wearing and in wearing.

Though there was one drawback. At least as of late. Though she fought to pull its brim over the long arch of her belly, straining to tuck it into her pants, the first few steps immediately untucking it. The fabric flew over to the center of her stomach, exposing her underbelly, the sloped fuzz of white and black, wobbling after each of her thunderous steps.

There was no point in trying to fight it after that. Nothing could be done for something too small or her too large. Rather this would have to be the outfit everyone saw her in. Her bulb figure shown off either good or worse. The crashing of her feet stomped through the hall, the morning finally done, going off to find her lover.